For "Amberstar" I'd
written a seriously long and, even if I say so myself, quite good
background novel. The reason behind this was the fact that, at my
departure from Thalion, I had been told I could write the
background novel for the real thing, something which in the end
didn't happen (and not because of my fault). I wanted to show 'em
that I could do a story that was just as good, or maybe better. I
guess I had an ego bruise there.

I - Youth

Tar had always been the odd one
out, ever since he was a small child. Although he looked pretty
much like any other child except for his somewhat darker
complexion, something about his attitude made people feel
uncomfortable when they were around him. There was nothing you
could put your finger on. He was just different. When he sat in
school the benches near to him were usually not occupied, when he
worked in the fields people avoided being at the same patch of
ground. Everybody seemed to act as if he suffered from something
contageous, something invisible he carried with him that might
leap at you unexpectedly when you came too close. Tar had learned
to cope with the isolation that was forced upon him by the other
villagers. He didn't need the other children to entertain
himself. He would wander through the nearby forests for hours, or
he would sit in his room thinking about everything and nothing,
daydreaming, or drawing. At least his parents treated him with
care and love. He was their only child and they were proud of
him, though they were reluctant to show it too clearly when they
were around others. Probably for that reason the villagers still
spoke with them and frequented their place - be it only when Tar
was out wandering in the forests or sitting in his room,
entangled in his deep thoughts. Tar would often stare at the sky,
dreaming away. He would gaze at the stars, which held for him a
true beauty he had yet to see reflected on earth. Somehow, the
stars seemed more pure than earthly things. Somehow, the galaxies
that floated high above him succeeded in diverting his thoughts
from the day's chores and his outcast position. He would float
among those eeriely flickering points of light amid infinite
darkness, possessing the power to decide what would happen to
those people far below, the people who roamed Lyramion, the
people who did not accept him because he was different, the
children that harassed him because he did not like their games.
He would soar higher than the mountains. Higher than the clouds -
like a true god. Tar knew he was different. He realised it
himself, too. All others of his age were interested only in
chasing and kicking balls, or catching birds. He, on the other
hand, was completely engrossed in thought most of the time. He
found other children's interests petty and useless, opposite to
his own. When he saw a tree he would wonder how it was shaped and
which powers were great enough to do so. He fantasised what trees
would have looked like if he would have created them. The most
important thing that set him apart from the other villagers,
including the adults, were the nightmares. Almost every night, he
would wake up with his eyes wide open in fear as if he had seen
visions of the worst things imaginable, unspeakable evil, doom
encompassing everything that existed. His parents had found this
odd, the village's healer had considered it yet another sign of
the boy's difference. There was no cure. It would simply go one
day - or stick with Tar for the rest of his days. In the
nightmares he would see the earth blackened, fires burn the
trees, volcanoes erupt, skeletal armies slaughter women and
babies. He would gaze into the eyes of undead, tremble at the
sight of concentrated, hot malice burning like two little red
suns in the hollow depths of their eye sockets. Death roamed the
lands, the heavens were coloured dark grey with clouds stampeding
across them like marching armies hurling physical destruction.
The most frightening thing was that, each time, his nightmares
seemed to start and end in terrible heat, seclusion, a prison.
Through the black skies he saw no stars, no sun and none of the
moons but one - the third moon. It would hang above the horizon
threateningly, as if suspended, unnaturally. Distant yet much too
close. It would loom above the horizon, silently, as if gazing
down on the ravished and plundered lands with a smile wrought
upon its barren surface.

The night was cold and starless
when Tar woke up. He had torn his clothes partly off his body,
his bed cover lay atop a rug on the ground. He had had one of
those nightmares again. He could still hear his own cry of terror
fade away around him, as if it was being sucked up by the
furniture in his room. He heard the sound of some movement on the
other side of the wooden wall; his parents had learned not to
come to him when he woke up after a nightmare, but they had not
quite found themselves capable of sleeping through the cries with
which he would wake up. After a short while he heard the rustling
of blankets stop, their voices cease. Tar looked outside. The
three moons were visible, the largest one partly hidden behind
the horizon. Yet the red moon, the third moon, somehow seemed to
be more prominent, more poignant in the way it hung above the
forests. Tar recognized the smile on the barren surface - or at
least he thought he did. It was the same smile he always saw in
his nightmares, the same smile that haunted his every waking hour
of the day. A shiver ran up and down his spine, making his hair
stand up on his skin. He turned around, trying to go to sleep
again. He found himself looking at his own shadow, with the light
of the moons around it, tinged red. Even when he closed his eyes
he could not ban the luringly red light from his mind. It seemed
as if the moon was calling, beckoning like the grim reaper
beckons a sick man on his death bed. Tar jumped out of bed. His
stomach felt gnarled, as if he had swallowed something bigger
than his body that was fighting its way out. Thoughts of getting
to sleep again were banned from his mind as though by a
mysterious force. He gazed at the moon much in the way he used to
stare at the stars. It did not hold their serene beauty but it
was obsessive in very much the same way. He could not tear his
eyes off the red globe that seemed to float on the darkness yet
support it at the same time. He put on his clothes, careful so as
not to awaken his parents on the other side of the thin wall
again. At first he thought he was merely imagining the moon
calling at him. It was ridiculous. Moons don't call. Moons are
inanimate objects and everything you think they do is but a
figment of your imagination. But something out there was calling,
even if it wasn't the moon. Something. He felt it in his head and
in his abdomen. It was a call he could not resist, not even if he
would have wanted to. And he did not even want to resist. Maybe
that was why he was different. He stalked out of the house. He
didn't really know where his feet were leading him. It seemed
logical to walk in the direction of the moon that loomed above
and amid blackness. A light breeze caught his hair as if urging
him on. Within minutes he seemed to be enfolded by trees on all
sides. At night the forest he knew so well had suddenly
transformed itself to something he didn't feel at home in. He
heard sounds he had never heard before - quick rustles in the
undergrowth, calls of animals that did not roam the land at
daytime. The trees seemed to bow down on him, making him want to
tremble. He reasoned his fear away. He knew this forest was well
known to him - all that it lacked was light to fall upon it. All
of it was just like he knew it, only painted black instead of the
luscious greens and browns he was used to see. Boughs seemed to
have grown where previously there had been none; they slapped
against his body and in his face. Vines seemed to grapple at his
legs as if wanting to make him fall, as if waiting for an
opportune moment to tie their victim to the ground and consume
him whole. Suddenly the trees seemed to bend back, boughs
retreated and the vines no longer held any power withing their
lifeless structures. They released Tar upon an open spot within
the forest where the light of the third moon fell unrestrained.
The ground seemed to be dipped in blood, it even seemed to drip
off the trees of which the long leaves hung down disconsoledly.
Looking around him, expecting anything to vault at him from those
ominously dark red shadows around him, Tar carefully walked
towards the middle of the clearing. Somehow, it held him bound as
if by a magical spell. There was nothing in the middle of the
open space, yet he seemed to be convinced it was the place to be
at. The red moon looked down on the frail figure that walked
stealthily towards the middle of the clearing. If it could, the
burst smile upon its surface would have widened. Tar arrived at
the spot in the middle. He had anticipated someone - or something
- to step out of the darkness around it and come to him now that
he had made himself most vulnerable. The moon kept gazing down,
silently, threatening in a strange way - like in his nightmares.
He had expected skeletons to stagger out of the shadows, wild
animals to get attracted to his scent and attack. He had expected
anything. Anything, that is, except for what did happen. A sound
as if wood was growing and breaking at the same time arose from
around him. It came from all sides, and it softly grew in
intensity. What had first been a wooden whisper he could barely
hear now gradually became a sound as if his clothes were being
torn from his body, as if wood was being ground on wood within
his own ears. He could not guess where the sound originated from.
It seemed to come from all directions around him yet from within
himself. He looked at the ground, startled by the growing
intensity of its redness. It seemed as if he was standing
knee-deep in thick, coagulated blood. It seemed to creep up his
legs in ragged gasps. He tried to escape but found that he could
not move his feet. The earth seemed to have come alive, it held
his feet in an iron embrace that he could not tug free of. Then
he was temporarily deaf and blind. The redness of everything
around him was for a briefest of instants replaced by a whiteness
as pure as flawless diamonds lying on fresh ice in a cloudless
midwinter night. He could not hear his own desperate cry even
though it made his throat hurt, his cheeks ache, his jaw muscles
tear, his eyes sting. After that brief instant, vision and sound
came back with a force that felt as if it would obliterate every
nerve in his body, shatter every muscle, grind every bone. A fork
of lightning had struck him, fire running up and down his body as
if wanting to undo him instantaneously. Yet he did not cease to
be. Instead, he absorbed the tremendous power fed to him by the
elements, his body bulging in its extreme efforts to contain all
this energy. As the cacophonic sound and visual mayhem wore off,
leaving all of Tar's senses utterly numbed, he thought he heard a
deep rumbling voice echoeing through his skull.
"Tarbos...you are the one...you are the one...are the
one...the one...one...one..." Somehow Tar succeeded in
staggering back to his parents' place, in spite of him being
thoroughly dazed and confused. The entire world seemed to reel
around him, heaven seemed to be below and for all he cared hell
could be above. He bumped into trees, thin low branches flung in
his face, other things hanging on his path lashed at him. He felt
none of it - all he did feel was that enormous power contained
within him that surged through his veins and flowed through his
brain like molten lead. When he came home he inadvertedly woke up
his parents. He slammed the doors behind him, grumbling to
himself like someone possessed. He lay down in his bed, not
bothering to take his muddy clothes off. He instantly dropped
into a comatose sleep.

II - Adolescent

Young Tar grew. He often wondered
what had happened precisely that fateful night in the forest but
his mind couldn't handle the implications. Lightning had struck
him yet he was still alive. If anything, he had suddenly grown
stronger and more intelligent. Whereas previously he had tried
hard to ignore other youths that made fun of him, he now didn't
even notice them any more. Encapsulated in dark, brooding
thoughts, Tar would let their insults bounce off an invisible
wall. His body would not register dirt or sand thrown at him. He
became more isolated within his own walls of confinement. The
knowledge that he was something different now strengthened him in
his resolve to ignore the entire world - ignore it until he would
be in a position to rule. Deep inside he felt that, one day, his
voice would be heard and his opinion would count. People would
have to listen to him, would have to take him into consideration.
Maybe, one day, he would really soar higher than the clouds,
touch the stars, look down upon others with disdain. He dreamt on
like he had done all his life.

One day, the village was aroused
by a warlord with his troup of soldiers who were staying over at
"The Lost Dragon", the local inn. They brought with
them many tales of war. The villagers could not help but listen
to these heroic yarns, enthralled, as sunburnt soldiers related
adventures that took place in distant countries. A feeling deep
inside Tar urged him to go there and hear those stories, too. If
he ever wanted to rule those who now made his life miserable, he
would have to gain knowledge. Knowledge of what was happening in
the world, knowledge of who was at war with whom. That night he
went to "The Lost Dragon". He entered it unnoticed, for
everybody was preoccupied listening to all those tales of
valiance and honour. Laughter and cries arose from the group that
sat around the fireplace. Even the landlord had left his usual
spot behind the bar so as not to miss as much as a word of what
was told. An occasional phrase drifted across the room to where
Tar stood - usually involving slaughter, death, or technicalities
that had to do with weaponry and warfare. Tar noticed he was not
the only one excluded from the people around the fireplace. A
stranger clad in a dark cloak sat huddled in another corner, his
face hidden in hooded darkness. The stranger seemed not
interested in the tales of supposed bravery. Occasionally a mug
of ale would disappear within the hood to be put back on the
table emptier. Tar realised it must be the soldiers' warlord.
Boldy, he seated himself opposite the hooded man. He tried to
discern a face under the hood but the darkness within it was
complete. The warlord did not seem to see the young man at all,
even though Tar tried to be noticed. Suddenly the man flicked
back his hood, revealing a roughly hewn face with a hawk's nose
amidst ragged black hair. His eyes with the colour of steel
stared intently at the young man. He looked up and down Tar's
arms and chest, glancing at the eager look in the eyes, the black
hair and the athletic build. "Why don't you go and listen to
the stories my warriors have to tell?" the man said. Tar
didn't reply, quite incapable of knowing what to say. Why didn't
he sit near the fireplace? Surely the warriors' tales would be
far better capable of stirring any young lad's imagination? Then
it dawned on him - he was different. He was not just any other
young lad. "That's not what you came here for, was it?"
the man inquired. Tar nodded, still at a loss for words. He
thought for a while, then said: "I want to see more of the
world, but not like them," he said with contempt, "I
want to learn, to be taught to do things others can't." The
warlord chuckled, taking another swig of his ale. "Sure,
son," he said, "you sound just as mixed up as my
cousin, what's his name, in the Seeker's Tower or
something." Tar's eyes lit, the small flames inside them
suddenly appearing to be on the verge of leaping. "Seeker's
Tower?" he breathed. The man nodded. "Down south, east
of the Yathoon delta. You can't miss it." "What's it
like?" Tar asked, enthusiasm seeming to writhe within his
bowels, consuming, "I mean, what do they do there?" A
deep laugh, almost out of control, echoed through the inn. Some
of the people near the fireplace looked at them but decided it
was not worth while missing the current story's more spectacular
bits for. "Well, son, they seek in Seeker's Tower," the
warlord said once he got his laughter under control, "they
seek knowledge." Tar felt as if he was out of breath, even
though he hadn't moved a finger, but only his lips. His heart
beat in his throat; he could hear the blood flowing through his
eardrums. "What knowledge?" he asked. The man snorted
derisively, pulling the hood over his head again. Obviously, he
did not consider it necessary to say another word. Tar stood up
and walked to the exit. He caught a glimpse of people laughing
and jesting in a corner of his eye. He did not heed them and went
outside, deep in thought as usual. He went home where his father
bade him the usual goodnight. That was the last thing any of the
villagers saw of Tar.

The third moon was nowhere to be
seen in the night's sky. Instead, the first and biggest of the
moons shed enough light on the valley for Tar to discern the
ominous silhouette of Seeker's Tower, looming up higher and
higher before him as he came closer. Curiously, no moonlight fell
on the building, as if afraid to be cast off or sent away.
Although the tower's entire surroundings bathed in soft, pale
light, the thing itself was visible only because of its sheer
blackness in contrast with everything around it. It looked like a
well of darkness that could suck you in and swallow you whole.
Now Tar also noticed the silence. On his long journey the sounds
of nature had always been there to accompany him - even at night
he had heard the sound of thousands of crickets and the odd owl,
nightly serenades to the gods. Now there was a silence so
complete he thought he must have been stricken deaf. Not even his
own boots made any noise on the ground, not even the wind in his
ears could be heard. Tar came closer. The tower seemed to grow,
louring ever more threateningly - but he felt no fear, only a
sense of purpose. His entire future, indeed, the future of the
world depended on him entering that tower. He would enter it, at
any price. The first sound he heard again was that of the
impressively ornamented wooden door that formed the entrance to
the tower. For a moment Tar didn't even realise it seemed to be
opening itself, as he was completely absorbed by the intricate
ornaments and arcane symbols that were engraved on the arch
around it. Its hinges whined a cold welcome, that seemed to slice
his bones in half, pierce his soul with frozen steel. "Come
on, come in," a creaky voice spoke from within the darkness
of the tower, "we have been expecting you." For a
moment Tar felt a fear strike his body that was more genuine than
any other he had felt before. The moment he passed the threshold,
however, the sensation disappeared. The door closed itself
silently, finally shutting with a deep thud that sent a low
tremor through the floor. His eyes grew used to the darkness
almost instantly. It was as if, within this Seeker's Tower, his
senses were increasingly aware of what was going on around him.
What had been silence now revealed itself as the soft whispers of
dark-robed figures that sat near the walls, observing him. Tar
could now also see the man who had let him in. It was a frail
figure, his gnarled hands telling tales of ages of writing. His
eyes were large, almost completely white with small light blue
pupils within the wrinkled face to which clung grey, matted hair.
The man had a nose like a hawk's. Tar looked around a bit more,
feeling oddly comfortable between these old seekers within their
almost sacred place of dark study. The ceiling was far above him,
with huge rusted chandeliers hanging down from it. The scarse
light was emitted from candles and a few torches that lined the
stairs that ran up around him along the walls, disappearing high
up in the darkness. "This is Tar," the old man now
said, almost solemnly. The murmur around the young man increased,
the huddled shapes in their black robes now bending over to each
other to exchange excited whispers, gesticulating energetically.
Tar pointed his ears but did not succeed in catching any of the
conversation that took place around him. He looked at the old
seeker, only to find the man's white eyes staring at him, not
looking away until the hushed whispers along the walls had worn
off. "Tar has come to us to study," the man now said, a
brief gleam of what could have been joy seeming to pass across
his face and eyes, "...to study." One of the men that
had sat along the wall now came forward from the shadows, folding
back his hood. Another nose like a hawk's protruded from the face
that was lined by many years of study and thought - yet from it
looked eyes that seemed that of a rather young man's by
comparison. "I am Master Zanthi, your tutor," the man
said with a voice that fitted the relative youth his eyes
radiated. "Please follow me." Tar went after Master
Zanthi who went up the winding stairs, following the rustle of
the heavy robes and the shuffle of the sandals on the steps of
polished stone. The tower must have been higher than Tar thought.
He even began to think he was starting to breathe with more
difficulty when, after what seemed like hours, the master halted
on a floor that was filled with books. It must have been some
sort of library, albeit one that had not been frequently visited
judging by the smell of dust and cobwebs that pervaded the air.
Master Zanthi lit a torch that sat perched on a ledge like a bird
of prey, as if guarding the books and scrolls that lay stacked
and piled on chairs, tables and shelves. Some of the books had
locks on them, some of the scrolls seemed to have protection
fields around them that shimmered in the flickering firelight.
"This is the sacred library of the very darkest arts,"
the seeker said. He paused, as if expecting Tar to ask something
- yet the young man had nothing to ask. Everything seemed, in
some strange way, to add up and fit together. He had no
questions. It all seemed logical to him, as if he was living a
dream that lived his life for him. Tar did not even notice his
master descending the stairs again, so aborbed was he by all dark
knowledge stored within this gloomy, vaulted chamber high in
Seeker's Tower. He felt he had sought this all his life, without
ever precisely having known what it was.

One stormy evening, when thunder
shook the tower and lightning blinded the windows, Tar was
disturbed by an unusual sound that arose into the sacred library
from below. Somehow, the seekers down there must have been acting
much more agitated than normal, as if something highly unusual
was happening. Unable to reign his curiosity, Tar went down. It
was the first time he went there since he had arrived at the
tower, some three weeks before. His master had usually brought
him food that he often left untouched. Tar was entirely devoted
to absorbing all dark knowledge present in the library, not
wanting to do anything else. Whereas it had seemed to take hours
until he had ascended the stairs upon his arrival, he now went
down them within a matter of minutes to join whatever was
happening in the main hall. The seekers shuffled to and fro
nervously, their hushed but excited whispers mounting to a murmur
that echoed up the stone walls. The first thing other than the
superfluous movements of bewildered seekers to attract Tar's
attention was the strange scent that lingered through the hall.
It was, he seemed to recall, something like the scent of perfume,
the smell of women. For a moment he envisioned the girls that had
stood in the background, laughing, pointing, when the village
boys kicked him or tied him to a tree. For an instant he
experienced an upcoming and quite nauseous feeling of bad
memories which left just as quickly as it had come when he
actually saw her. She stood near the huge wooden entrance door,
talking to the ancient man with white eyes that had also welcomed
him upon his arrival at the tower. Seekers walked around them,
absent-mindedly, succeeding in apparently having an excuse to
catch a glimpse of what was probably the first female ever to
enter the tower. Tar looked at her. She didn't look at him; she
was still talking to the old man about something or other. She
wore a dark blue robe of some exquisite material that engulfed
her body as if it were a logical extension of her natural skin.
Her long hair fell about her shoulders in some kind of magic way,
flowing curled and golden, accentuating her almost unearthly
beauty that seemed as if inherited from heaven. The old man
seemed to sense Tar's eager eyes burning on them, for he
interrupted the conversation and lead her to the young man to be
introduced. Tar saw her walking towards him and suddenly he felt
that strange feeling in his abdomen again - the feeling of having
swallowed something huge that seemed to be fighting its way out.
This time, however, it felt good in a peculiar kind of way. For
the first time he saw stars on earth - her astonishingly light
blue eyes that looked at him, quite unaware of the damage they
could cause to mortal men. She bowed ever so slightly, after
which Tar bowed low. "Adept Tar," the old man said,
trying to fill his voice with dignity, "this is Princess
Mylneh of Lyramion." He then turned to the princess.
"Your highness, this is one of our finest and most zealous
students, Adept Tar. He will show you around Seeker's
Tower." Kneeling down and suppressing a tremble, Tar took
her delicate hand as gently as he could and brushed it with his
lips. It seemed as if little sparks flew to and fro between them
during that brief moment. "Your servant," Tar muttered.
He heard his own heart's beat in his ears. He looked up at the
princess to find her blushing at his behaviour. "Don't be
silly," she whispered. The old man didn't seem to hear. Tar
rose to his feet again, offering her his arm. His eyes did not
leave her face - the blush remained, her lips formed a silent
smile that her eyes echoed, like tiny stars Tar saw flickering
within their depths. Tar lead her up the stairs, still not quite
knowing what else to say or how to husband the wild beating of
his heart. Obviously she didn't know him. She did not know that
he was different, she was not one of the girls that laughed and
made fun of him behind his back. She was far above the rest,
floating high on an invisible cloud above all other mortals Tar
had met before. She was the loveliest creature he had ever laid
eyes on. It was the scent of her perfume that he had sensed when
he had come down from the sacred library. He seemed reluctant or
too nervous to start talking with her, which Mylneh did not fail
to notice. "It's actually much less nasty in this Seeker's
Tower than I thought," she said, "I had expected grumpy
old men bowing over endless spells and charms, quite incapable of
doing anything else - let alone show hospitality to a lady."
Tar didn't answer. He was too enchanted by the music in her
voice, that seemed to bring forth yet unsung hymns and
spellbinding melodies played on a deified instrument no one so
far had been able to make during earthly life. If he closed his
eyes he saw endless pastures with birds, blooming trees and
dancing nymphs. "So you are Tar," she said,
interrupting his thoughts. "The old man with the white eyes
told me you came here last. He seems to think highly of you and
your capabilities." Tar found himself blushing, looking
away. Normally he knew exactly how to handle any situation, but
this young woman made him feel strange, uncapable of uttering
coherent words. During the guided tour he gave Mylneh, he had to
concentrate hard. At times he found his heart commanding him to
tell her "You're incredibly beautiful" or "You are
the most gorgeous creature I have ever laid eyes on". He
swallowed them back just before his lips began to form the words.
She had him all confused. He was glad when the guided tour was
over. It gave him an excuse to be without her without appearing
rude - so he could think things over and try to work out why this
young woman made him act so irrational.

Mylneh could get along fine with
Tar. To some extent he could confide in her. She seemed to
understand his childhood, make him feel comfortable. For the
first time in the weeks he had spent in the sacred library he
could tear himself away from the gathering of knowledge. They sat
up late, talking about a wide variety of things. She had been
surprised by the storm and had decided to take refuge in the
tower. She did not tell him why she had been riding in the
Bollgar Valley on her own, but he guessed it was none of his
business. All he knew was that the fate must have guided her
here. He was convinced that she was destined for him and that he
was destined for her. One day, he knew, he would have her and
rule the world with her on his side. He told her nothing of his
ambitions, however; most of the time when they were together she
was the one who spoke. Her tales were of royal life, hunting,
games and the wonders of faraway kingdoms. He was pleased to
notice that none of her stories included a prince of some kind.
He would listen to the musical rivulet of her voice and dream
away, gazing at her delightful face and those twinkling little
stars he thought he could see deep within the blue of her eyes.
Each time she smiled at him his heart leaped, each time he heard
the music of her laugh his soul seemed to hurl itself up and down
between his throat and his stomach. The table in the sacred
library lay silent, the torch perched on the ledge went out and
remained unlit. Only outside the cold fangs of the wind seemed to
want to tug at the very stones of which the tower consisted.
Scrolls written with the blood of virgins lay untouched, books
remained open at the spot where Tar had been studying them when
Mylneh arrived. On them shone the weak, red light of the third
moon that seemed to gaze intently at everything that was
happening within the tower. For the time being, the young man no
longer seemed to be interested in dark knowledge. He was now only
interested in Mylneh, this princess that seemed to be the
embodiment of virtue and loveliness, music and joy. The storm did
not relent for two days. The tower seemed to sway in the gale as
if the elements were in league trying to tear its entire
structure asunder. Inside, however, only the occasional thunder
and lightning would come through, and sometimes the howling of
the wind. Mylneh and Tar would sit together, huddled at a
smouldering fire in another room high up in the tower - talking
and laughing until they both fell into a deep, untroubled sleep.

On the third morning after the
Lyramian princess had arrived at Seeker's Tower, the sun shone.
Its warmth gladdened the hearts of the seekers, and the very
tower itself seemed to sigh deeply after having withstood so much
undaunted violence for two days. The sun should also have
gladdened Tar's heart but it didn't. While the weather's turmoil
outside forced the princess to remain inside the tower he was
able to increase his hold on her. Now the sun shone and the birds
again sung their songs, he knew she would want to go. It was as
if a frozen claw clasped his heart. Perhaps everything had been a
dream. She had not been nice to him, she had not laughed, he had
not been able to bask in her presence and the attention she gave
him. It had not meant anything. She would go and he would once
more be alone, the only purpose in his life being the gathering
of knowledge so that one day he could fulfil his ambitions, teach
the world a lesson. There was a soft knock on his door. A voice
inside told him it was Mylneh. She would come to say goodbye and
leave the tower, leave him, walk out of his life. She was no
different from the others after all. He did not reply. The soft
knock was repeated. Again he kept silent, hushing the voice of
his heart that cried out with the fell voice of true love, for
the first and last time in his life. Something inside him broke
when he heard her turn around, followed by the soft sounds of her
feet going as she went down the stairs. He opened the window and
looked outside. He cursed the sun, he cursed the birds. He cursed
the after-rain smell that entered his room. He clenched his fists
in powerless anger. One day, everything would be different. He
swore he would get even with that cruel and vicious world that
had labelled him different. The hinges of the tower entrance, far
below him, whined their goodbye to Princess Mylneh of Lyramion as
she left on her horse. She did not look back and grew smaller and
smaller as her horse lead her back home - until finally she was
indiscernible. Tar closed the window, shutting his heart with it,
and went back to the sacred library. He lit the torch and
continued where he left off with his study of the ancient
writings.

III - Man

With renewed vigour, Tar threw
himself on the gathering of knowledge. Master Zanthi continued
bringing him his daily food, which Tar increasingly often left
untouched. They would exchange greetings and the master would
launch an occasional attempt at social talk - but Tar didn't want
any of his master's attention, he did not want the man's pity.
One night all three moons were present just above the horizon.
Looking up from the books and scrolls, Tar once more saw the
crude smile that seemed to be engraved on the third moon's
surface, its red face. Somehow, its light was more powerful than
that of the other moons - it had succeeded in dipping the entire
library in a bloody shade of red, in spite of the orange and
yellow light the lonely torch tried to cast. Tar heard a deep
rumble that he first mistook for a distant earthquake - but the
tower was not moving, none of the volcanoes at the horizon were
lit. The rumbling increased and transformed into what seemed like
laughter - deep, bellowing laughter. It was the laughter he had
heard to often in his youth, but now it was magnified. He closed
his eyes and ears, but was unable to block it out; it might just
as well have come from within. When he opened his eyes the moons
had disappeared behind a dark veil of clouds. The laughter had
ceased - all he could hear now was the sound of the torch slowly
being eaten by its flames. The entire library was, however, still
painted red; the colour actually seemed to have intensified. He
looked around. Where there had previously been shelves filled
with nothing but tomes there was now an enormous throne, made of
smooth stone. It seemed as if the stone was glowing, as if it
consisted of molten rock being held in shape by some mysterious
and very powerful force. On the throne sat a man, looking at Tar
with interest. His arms rested on the sides of the throne, his
fingers tapping in an all but impatient way. He seemed to radiate
some kind of power, evil power. The eyes were bright white with
black centres, staring at the young man, trying to gauge his
reaction. Tar had read a lot. He knew much. He knew enough to
recognise a demon when he saw one. This was definitely a demon -
possible one of the second level. "So you're called Tar
now," the demon snorted. Tar had heard that voice before. He
couldn't quite remember where and when, though. He only knew deep
within that this voice was familiar. The demon seemed to sense
Tar's thoughts and could not help but chuckle. "Maybe things
will be more clear to you if I call you Tarbos." Then, it
hit Tar like a blunt battle lance. For a brief moment he felt as
if he was hurled mercilessly against a brick wall, as if someone
had hit him with a bell, the echo of its toll slowly wearing off
inside his head. "Who...who are you?" Tar asked, not
able to suppress the fear in his voice, "What do you
want?" He slowly realised this was a demon of none other
than the first level, the highest level - the lord demon. The
pope of the underworld. The lord demon coughed, irritated.
"Don't you know, pitiable half-human?" he bellowed,
"Are you really as dim-witted and naive as you try to make
me believe?" "Half-human?" Tar shrank back in his
chair, trying to hide behind his own shadow. He gazed
involuntarily at the lord demon's incredibly white eyes that
seemed to be ablaze with evil. He didn't understand what the
demon meant. "Half-human?" Once again the evil lord was
one step ahead of Tar's thoughts. "Yes, you're a half-human.
Half human, half demon, Tarbos! I am your father, guardians of
hell forbid!" It was as if Tar collided with another battle
lance, more sturdy than the one before, and heavier. The bell
tolling inside him was louder, almost up to the point of
deafening him from within. So that was his difference. That was
why nobody had liked him - he'd been a half-demon all his life,
product of unholy lust between the lord demon and a human witch.
The people that had brought him up had not been his parents. He
had his interests for dark knowledge impaled within his soul,
carved within each cell of his being. The difference. Now he knew
what it was. As the shock gradually wore off, though, he began to
relish the thought. His entire life he had wanted to rule, he had
wanted to inflict his will upon all mortals. Now he knew he was
the son of a lord demon - if anyone would be able to reign the
land it would be him. And, of course, Mylneh would ultimately be
his. He was so engrossed in his own thoughts and dreams that he
did not notice the lord demon fading away, back to his dark
domain. "I'll be seeing you," the lord demon said,
tearing Tar's mind back to reality, "one day."
"No, wait!" Tar yelled, afraid it might be too late
already, "I need to know your name!" He needed to know
it, or otherwise he would never be able to summon the lord demon
when it deemed him fit. Within his mind he thought rapidly. He
had to challenge his father, beat him, become him. But he needed
to know the name. "Thornahuun," the lord demon spoke,
his voice carrying with it the realisation that this had been the
first nail in his coffin. Then, with the sound of his evil
laughter disappearing into nothingness, he evaporated. On the
place where the throne had stood were now once again the old
shelves filled with books and potions.

At night, Tar's dreams would
become increasingly horrid. They would be filled with people
wading in blood, forks of lightning unmaking the earth, his own
soul being torn apart between evil choices. His hands could deal
death, his commands would be obeyed by dread creatures he had
thought would not dare to occur even in the most evil of dreams.
But now he would not wake up listening to the echo of his waking
cry, nor would he be bathing in sweat - instead he would relish
the nightmares, enjoy them, memorise them for the future, feast
on their taste of fear and decay. One day it would all be his. He
would be the one to wield the scales of his own justice, brandish
the scythe of his own hate. As if haunted by all his past fears,
Tar read through chapter after chapter in the learned books of
the very darkest arts. He would file spells away in his mind,
learn to recite the blackest incantations by heart. He knew what
he had to do - he had to challenge his father, the lord demon
himself, and defeat him utterly. He needed the power, he wanted
the power. The sheer thought of possessing it almost made his
mouth water, made his eyes ever more greedily devour the sacred
writings. He studied, no longer bothering even to cast a glimpse
at the meals his master would leave daily. Sometimes, the tutor
would try to communicate with his pupil but without success. Tar
was fully occupied with his mastery of whatever would be needed
to challenge the lord demon, challenge his father. There was no
doubt in his mind that he would succeed, no doubt in his soul
that he was the lord demon to be. He would not sleep for more
than an hour or two each night. He would continue reading and
making notes when the moons had almost set already, and would get
up with the earliest morning rays of the sun. He became a ghost
of himself, pale, unhealthy. His muscles went weak, his eyes
became large dark orbs amid seemingly hollow sockets - as if they
floated in a black void.

It did not take long, his stamina
leading him through the required books and scrolls at almost
frightening speed, before Tar had gained the knowledge he needed
to challenge and defeat the lord demon. It was one of those
proverbial starless nights, with dark clouds covering the moons
as if in anger, when Tar chose to write the blackest yet most
immanent page in the history of his life - and that of the world.
He prepared candles, appropriate scrolls, incantations, potions -
everything he thought he might need for this challenge of
challenges. He put out the torch and the candles. Immediately,
the library of dark knowledge bathed in an intense black, like
velvet. Tar whispered a soft spell, upon which his body started
radiating a soft orange glow. Then he started chanting. At first
the murmers that arose from his lips were barely audible, but
they gained clearness until the walls reverberated that one word
- the name of the demon lord. "Thornahuun! Thornahuun!
THORNAHUUN!" Tar's voice gained strength at each uttering of
the word, until it arrived at the stage where it was too immense
to come merely from one human being. The floor started to tremble
and vibrate; it seemed to transform itself into a sea of molten
lava out of which a large stone arose - an enormous throne atop
which sat Thornahuun, the lord demon. Tar's father. The demon
kept silent, his lips wrinkled in a mute smile with a touch of
gloomy foreboding. After a couple of seconds that seemed to crawl
by like years, he spoke. "So you've decided you're up to it,
Tarbos, my son," Thornahuun spoke, his voice tinged with
solemnity, "up to challenging the lord demon - your
father." With that a lightless crack of thunder shuddered
the tower, sending a shiver down Tar's spine. Something rose in
his throat. Quickly, the young man regained his composure. He
swallowed and shook his head. He could not afford to show any
weakness, let alone fear. "Yes," Tar replied, his voice
suddenly too frail to carry meaning. He saw Thornahuun raise his
eyebrows and flinched. "Yes!" he now cried, his chest
uttering the word as if it was a last desperate breath. For a
while a blanket of silence seemed to clasp both opponents'
throats. It seemed to numb their senses, postpone the passing of
the very material of time and space. It seemed as if the world
held its breath, as if nature itself hung suspended in the air.
Then the lord demon began to laugh. At first he only moved his
cheeks and his eyes. Then he started to shake his body. His mouth
fell wide open, his white teeth showing, his eyes closed. His
abdomen started rising and sinking. The sound increased from a
soft grunt to a heavy rumble that again succeeded in shuddering
the floor and making cracks appear in the ceiling. Tar clasped
his hands over his ears, closing his eyes. He had no chance. The
lord demon was too powerful. His father laughed at him, straight
in the face. No chance at all. He would be crushed, smitten
utterly, defeated, reduced to a meaningless hope of ashes. None
of his dreams would come true, he would never rule the world like
he had so often almost experienced within the intensity of his
fantasies. Yet the next moment the laugh ceased. Its echoes
seemed to disappear within the cracks in the ceiling, behind the
impressive throne the lord demon sat on. The sudden silence was
almost physically painful, sending ringing noises to Tar's ears.
But it did not cause a fragment of the pain he experienced next.
A terrifying sound enveloped him from all sides until it seemed
to come from within his head, from within his bones, from within
the core of his ears, from within his feet and working upward. He
seemed to be the sound itself. It sent him to the ground,
kneeling, writhing, screaming, causing him to cough up phlegm,
acutely nauseated. From the corner of his eyes he saw walls
crumble to dust, stones fall to the ground. His guts told him he
was falling down. He strained his muscles to look up at the
throne on which the lord demon sat. Thornahuun's face now seemed
to portray intense pain. Then the skin started coming off, as if
the lord demon was peeling himself. Soft red tissue was revealed,
blood trickled down the throne onto the floor, started crawling
towards Tar's hands and knees. It was flowing towards him as if
some mysterious force controlled it. It circled around him until
it had gained in quantity. On the throne now hung a skeleton with
dried skin and ligaments loosely attached to it. All blood had
gathered around the challenger. It seemed to extend paws as if
probing. Then the mysterious force suddenly seemed to lose
control over it. A wailing cry seemed to break the tower in two
as a fiery sensation crawled up and down Tar's body as if
possessing him. When the pain eased off the redness around him
had formed a large, formless puddle amidst which Tar found
himself sitting when the silence once again was complete. The
throne had disappeared. There were no walls - only ruins. Above
him was the sky, with the clouds having formed one hole through
which glanced the third moon. He was stunned, panted heavily.
Then he knew. "Now I am Tarbos! Tarbos! TARBOS!"

IV - God

The battle had crumbled Seeker's Tower. Amid the
smoking ruins Tarbos stood mightily, power leaping across his
chest and arms like little flashes of crackling lightning that
seemed to feed on him. He, Tarbos, had now finally reached what
he had yearned for all this time, all his life - absolute power.
He had challenged the lord demon, his father, and had become the
god of chaos. Finally, he had fulfilled his ambitions and found
himself in a position to wage war on the world, to teach
everybody a lesson - and a lethal lesson it would be! His muscles
rippled and pulsated as he tried to contain the fierce powers
that raged and gathered within him. His mouth uttered demonic
laughter, increasing until he himself seemed to become the
personification of it. His eyes flashed, absorbing everything
around him. There was nobody, nothing that could challenge him
now. The mages among the seekers were mostly killed, the rest had
scattered and fled. No power in Lyramion could ban him or stop
him from achieving his ultimate goal. He would rule the lands and
make Mylneh his queen - a queen worthy of him, worthy of a god.
He was now the most powerful creature on earth. He could do
anything he wanted. He could invoke any demonic powers he cared
to. He would invoke them. He stretched his arms out before him,
lightning blazing between his hands. Strange sounds arose from
the earth. Howling, crying, chanting, breaking, tearing. Around
Tarbos the earth seemed to wave like an ocean, with shapes
breaking forth from it. At first the forms were made of mud,
unshaped. As they continued to grow from the soil, however, they
took on the shapes of black horses with red eyes and light grey
manes, the forms of winged skeletons and reptilian soldiers - all
armed to the teeth with lances, swords, battle axes and spears.
They all growled and grunted, their joints cracking at each
movement while their transition was not yet complete. Shrill
cries were uttered as if they were all swearing allegiance to
their god and creator, Tarbos. "With this army I will
enslave the earth. Nobody will be forgotten. I will get
even." Tarbos created more and more evil creatures, his
magic unrelenting, his foul imagination shaping every creature
more repellent and hateful than the previous. Thousands of evil
creatures arose thus - built from mud, stone and dark magic.

One night, a messenger on horseback arrived at
the castle of King Marakahn of Lyramion. The horse was not a
normal one - it was deepest black with dark red eyes that
radiated hate. Its light grey manes seemed to lick at its rider
like flames. The soil seemed to whither away at every spot where
its hooves touched the ground. On it sat a rider in a robe as
black as the colour of its horse. Its face was not visible except
for two little red sources of light that must have been its eyes.
The guards dared not touch nor hinder this mysterious messenger,
afraid that it might strike them dead with one fell swoop of some
diabolical weapon it might have hidden somewhere within the many
folds of its robe. "Bring me to your king," a voice
said from under the hood. The voice was deep, broken, unnatural,
carrying with it an almost palpable threat which the creature did
not bother to conceal. One of the guards ran off to tell his king
about this dark messenger. The foul creature did not have to wait
long until the guard came back, panting, bidding it to follow
him. Marksmen and knights had gathered around the messenger,
ready to strike and shed their lives when called upon. The
messenger was ushered into the king's hall of audience. Many more
knights and other warriors were present, poised around the throne
on which sat the king accompanied by his daughter. Tarbos'
servant pulled back his robe which caused murmurs, gasps and
shivers to be sent down the ranks of mortals - for it was no man
but some gruesome animal nobody had seen before, perhaps even a
demon. Knights grabbed the hilts of their sword when the creature
took something from a fold in his robe. It was an official
looking scroll, written on parchment. On an invisible forcefield
it floated towards the king who took it from the air, failing to
suppress a tremble. King Marakahn unrolled it, his eyes
travelling slowly across what was written. A tear appeared in his
eye. He had to swallow. He passed it on to Mylneh, his daughter.
She, too, read it - but she sank on her knees, sobbing, not quite
capable of handling the implications the message brought. The
king held his head in his hands for a while, then looked up
facing the foul creature and cleared his throat. He arose from
his chair, trying to look respectful. "Never will we give in
to your master's wishes, heinous fiend!" he cried proudly,
"That bastard of hell will never get my kingdom nor will he
ever get my...my..." he struggled in an attempt to steady
his voice, "...my daughter! If war is what he wants, then
war is what he'll get. Either that or he will have to kill
me!" The man sank back in his chair, hiding his face. His
daughter, wiping away her own tears, tried to comfort him. The
dark messenger turned on its heel, its robes flowing dramatically
behind it. Outside the hall of audience it mounted its black
steed, had it rear on its hind legs and then galloped away, back
to its evil master Tarbos, the god of chaos. Inside the hall of
audience, King Marakhan ordered all of Lyramion's mages to gather
at castle Godsbane in the north of the land. Something had to be
done to stop Tarbos from reaching his vile goal. Something had to
be done to protect the land - not to mention Mylneh, the
beautiful heir to his throne.

Night came and went. The frail morning saw no sun
to light its drab greyness, it heard no birds that could make one
forget the sound of the wind sweeping across the plains around
the king's castle, nor that of thunder gathering at the horizon.
The entire surrounding land seemed to be festering with hate -
the trees had been corrupted, having been bent, wrinkled and made
leafless overnight. They formed evil figures, an audience for the
war that would take place here. The earth was black as if
scorched, echoing the colour of clouds that rumbled impatiently,
pregnant with fiery storms and torrents. Tarbos was in control of
the elements. He wielded lightning as deft as a warrior would a
knife, he controlled the flow of the winds, he commanded the
downpour of rain to suit his evil intent. It literally vomited
rain. The god of chaos' armies appeared at the horizon late in
the afternoon. At first they seemed like trembling mountains on
the horizon, but when they came closer lookouts could tell that
it was a huge army of monsters, of undead, of walking skeletons
that no longer abided the laws of life and death. Tarbos had
corrupted the world, the sun, life. No man's heart could help but
feel desolate in the face of such monstrosities. Within what
seemed like mere minutes, Tarbos' foul armies swept the castle.
Men died like whithering leaves being torn off dead trees by a
winter gale; intense fires consumed wood, stone and metal. Loyal
men fled; proud warriors threw down their swords, sunk on their
knees and wept until they died. Blood coloured the ruins of the
once proud fortress that kings had ruled Lyramion from for many
generations red. Within a few dark minutes, black pages in the
history of Lyramion's monarchy, it was reduced to a meaningless
pile of rubble. In the end only the king stood, wounded, his
sword hanging limply in a paralysed hand. Only his crown, golden
amid the blackness of the world, stood on his head with a remnant
of pride, its diamonds shining defiantly. Guards lay around him,
killed in horrendous ways. It was a sight even maggots would have
thrown up on. Not so Tarbos, god of chaos, who descended from his
black steed and walked towards the monarch. His evil warriors
left the king untouched, not daring to defy their lord's commands
though their fangs dribbled rabidly with anticipation of death
and slaughter. "Or I will have to kill you, eh?" For a
moment Tarbos breathed in his triumph, then his face darkened -
this was not the castle where magicians were at that very moment
trying to prepare the spell that would attempt to banish him
forever to some distant place. Furthermore, he had not found
Mylneh here. The king looked at Tarbos, reading the thoughts from
the deep frown embedded on the evil fiend's face. He smiled a
smile of content. Tarbos' victory was not complete. Not yet. The
god of chaos could yet be defeated. He had bought time, precious
time. King Marakahn smiled his last smile. Frothing with anger,
Tarbos took a dagger from his belt and with a fell swing of it
decapitated the old man. A noiseless cry froze on the king's lips
as the head flopped off the neck and rolled down amid blood and
dirt. "Godsbane." Tarbos jumped on his black stallion,
not looking back as the king's body dropped to the earth, too.
The god of chaos uttered a silent command. He rode north with
lightning speed. His army followed him, lethal and agile like
some evil mythological creature.

For a moment, Mylneh felt a tremble shuddering
her bones, her brain, the very core of her being. For a while she
saw the world turn around her; she could not focus her attention
on the incantations and the chants uttered by the magicians
around her. She felt her father, king of Lyramion, had died. She
felt the last beat of his heart echo through her head, refusing
to abate for long seconds during which seasons seemed to pass
within her. He had stalled time. She prayed it would turn out to
have been enough, she hoped he had not died for naught, that his
life and that of all who had died with him would have counted.
Already she felt Tarbos' cursed attention on her; she could
imagine a cold hand, like that of a corpse, resting on her
shoulder. She could see herself turning around to stare within
those fiery red eyes filled with anger and hate no mortal man had
ever possessed before. Driven as if by some evil inferno, Tarbos
and his army drew towards Godsbane. What would have been many a
day's journey through dense forests and across endless plains was
decreased to mere hours. The god of chaos combined all his
tremendous power to make his army move on the wings of the wind's
turmoil. The forests below seemed to greet them with warped trees
stretching out towards them, the blackened planes radiating some
eerie power of darkness, urging them on. Early in the morning -
or perhaps it was in the middle of night - the lookouts at castle
Godsbane saw Tarbos' army, heard the stampeding of horses. They
sent hurried messages down into the bowels of the castle where
the magicians were feveredly trying to complete the preparation
for the banishment spell. They could not rehearse. There was no
time to double-check. This one had to succeed in one go - either
that, or the entire world would enter a period of dark infinity
it would surely never wake up from. Tarbos rode at the head of
his army, that he seemed to hold back. Godsbane would have to be
taken more carefully, as he did not want Mylneh to be hurt. He
needed her to become a whole person himself, he needed her to sit
beside him on her own throne, the two of them ruling the universe
supreme. Tarbos crushed the ancient wooden gates from their
hinges, storming through the first defence with a handful of his
undead lieutenants - straight at the core of Godsbane, where he
would find Mylneh and those accursed magicians that had somehow
gained the courage to challenge him, to try a feeble attempt at
banishing him, even! He slew the second defence ring, that
guarded the room deep inside Godsbane from behind which the god
of chaos sensed a large concentration of magic. A flash of light,
the sound of thunder. The door ceased to exist, transformed into
as many small bits as there are stars in the universe. When the
dust cleared he walked in, full of confidence and ready to strike
at whatever would dare to attack him. He saw the shapes of the
magicians, but only dimly. In the centre of the ring sat Mylneh.
Beautiful Mylneh, the woman he had yearned for so long. The only
mortal who had ever seemed to understand him, who had not laughed
at him, who had not found it necessary to kick him. Now he heard
the arcane hum that hung in the air. Now he saw Mylneh's hands,
stretched out at him - but not as in a welcoming embrace. They
held a jewel. He sensed excessive magic.

V - Exile

For a moment, Tarbos stood frozen. His eyes
opened wide, filled with the fears of long forgotten memories.
The god of chaos was made painfully aware of the fact that there
were more powers in the universe besides his, besides dark and evil
ones. He now felt all forces combined - and being used against
him. All shades of grey, red, yellow, white. They were all there.
Mages looked at him as if they would personally want to banish
his pitiable being to some faraway planet. Within the fraction of
a moment that passed between the realisation of defeat and the
actual banishment, his eyes flashed to and fro the mages. To
Mylneh. Mylneh. The only human he had ever truly felt some
affection for, the only mortal that he had wanted to make his,
that he had wanted to share his life and his powers with. Her
eyes looked at him, filled with hate but tinged with pity. Her
hands were stretched out at him, holding out the intricate jewel,
on the verge of casting that one spell all sorcerers had
prepared. The banishment spell Tarbos had never considered
possible, the surge of power that spelled out utter defeat in
bright, coruscating capitals. His undead legions stood as
motionless as their master, their victims rescued in mid-thrust,
their lord's mind not being able to control them anymore.
Frantically, Tarbos thought of ways to deflect this ordeal. In
his mind he tried to leaf through the scrolls and tomes he had
studied for all that time in Seeker's Tower. Words flashed, but
they did not connect to anything he could use. He looked in
Mylneh's eyes one last time. They still seemed like beautiful
little stars, but now they only predicted his defeat. He was
about to sigh when his entire being was enveloped in fire. It
scorched his body like he had scorched the land, his arms and
fingers grew gnarled like the trees he had bent, his eyes burnt
in his head as if birds picked them out. He sunk to his knees,
helpless, powerless, weakened completely. The sorcerers' chants
softened and died off as he seemed to be moving away from them.
He could see nothing around him, nothing but a vast blackness and
then, suddenly, everything was red. He could not move. He dared
not think. He felt as if he was encased in something solid and
infinitely big. It felt as if the red colour had frozen solid,
redness incarnated. The red moon, the third moon. His prison for
eternity. Outside Godsbane, Tarbos' undead legions crumbled to
dust, their shrill cries of defeat echoing up the heavens as if
hailing their master one final time. Then there was silence.

A thousand years passed by. The land forgot its
sufferings, the people went back to living their normal lives.
Evil powers were banished from the earth, all levels of black
magic repressed. The monarchy flourished. Kings died natural
deaths and peace ruled the land. Generally, everybody was happy.
Everybody, that is, except for the odd mage with blacker
interests than those of his tutors. These formed small guilds in
obscure places - communicating, learning, brooding, gathering.
Ultimately they got the ambition of releasing the legendary god
of chaos from the ethereal womb of his banishment. For years they
studied, much in the way Tar had done when he was a young man,
although it was made more difficult for them as most dark knowledge
had been written down in books that had been destroyed a long
time ago. New incantations had to be devised, forgotten scrolls
had to be sought, restored and interpreted. The black magic guild
slowly regained the dark arts, their minds occupied with the
plotting of destruction. Some undead were seen roamed the land
again. Nobody noticed - or perhaps nobody wanted to notice.
Slowly but certainly, the rotten core within the lands grew in
size and power. It infected, administering decay and
dissatisfaction to those eager to be fed. And there it strained
to remain hidden. Hidden, that is, until the sore spot burst.

This text was published in the Atari
ST diskmag "ST News" and is used by kind
permission of Richard Karsmakers. Source for this
article: http://www.st-news.com